


To Degrade

by theholychesse



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author Will Regret Things Quite Shortly, Bill's Still The Neighbourhood Demonic Fuckboy, Bill's a Kid Dip's a Kid, Child Neglect, Don't Take This Fic Too Seriously Cause I Don't, F/F, F/M, Like So Slow That Don't Be Surprised If I Lose Interest, M/M, Possible Other Disturbing Crap Which Will Be Tagged As They Happen, Slow Build, Starts Straight After The First Episode, Unhealthy Relationships, Upcoming Gore, hence the warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholychesse/pseuds/theholychesse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a rustle from the bushes, there's the whine of some creature (small?)(big?) and the growl of the very same or perhaps a different beast, just as toothy and knee-shaking. The incessant drumming of his heart must give him away, and he feels nothing but raw terror rise like bile in his throat as something comes out. It's replaced by blinking, startled confusion as the fearsome creature reveals himself to be a boy, with sparkling eyes, twigs in bleached blond hair, and a too-wide grin that speaks of something ominous like the crack of thunder on the day of one's birth.</p><p>(Or, alternatively, the one in which Dipper Pines cares too much, and suffers the consequences.)(Warning, currently on hiatus due to the author currently crying through exams.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Associations

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, after a year or something of having been dead to the world. For those few, unlikely people who knew me from before; No, I will not be having ten fics that need to updated up all at once, and, no, I do not hope to be as spastic as before. What I ultimately aim with this fic is to get myself back in the world of fanfiction after spending a year hiding in a cave, and to possibly create a fic that I might be satisfied to read myself. 
> 
> I would appreciate any feedback, and any mistakes spotted, because, for now, this work does not have a beta. Also, when the updates come will all be up to my fickle self, and there might be a distance of weeks between updates, or hours. If you dislike the writing style in this chapter, do not despair, for quite soon things will be normal-ish, but, ultimately, a lot of my story will be told like this. So, if you don't like it, then I might suggest another fic. Still, I am happy for all those who might read this, and hope that the future might be pleasing to you.
> 
> If anyone cares to see the old fics I have, one can go look at the only other fic on this account, or my dead one on Fanfiction.com. I won't be updating any of the stories there, and I consider it to be hell to me. My account there has the same name as here. For the person whom I made this for, I do hope you have enjoyed this little sneak peak into the senseless mess that shall come shortly.
> 
> In any case, enjoy!

(' _One might ask the mouse, small, and quiet, yet with poisonous teeth that will send you to the edge of sweetness and bitterness, who is the worst in this world. The mouse will chatter it's teeth, and stretch it's nimble limbs, before it replies with a 'The bullfrog is bad, worst, for he slays my kind with no inhibitions, and he has slain many other bullfrogs too' '_. The voice is slow, and placid, with no solid hint of aggression save for the minor tenseness in formless, colourless shoulders. You find it to be refreshing, this faceless spectre, for it brings no harmful associations.)

 

The boy’s body shudders as the affection of the heavens slides down his skin, cooling him unnecessarily, and leaving his eyelids wet with a few of the droplets that seem to perpetually fall from the sky. There is no wind, yet his body sways, as if a powerful gust is pushing his frame around, far too rough and far too unneeded for such a moment. No, the only thing rocking his body, and leaving his cerebral glob hungering for xanic mirth is the lack of tightness in his chest, the lack of warmth, the lack of anything human filling him up. There’s someone specific to blame for that, he knows, and yet he does not possess the energy required to dig through the maddening snare which is his own mind. And, most likely, that memory was unneeded anyway.

 

(' _One asks the bullfrog, so very vindicated by the quiet mouse, one may approach it, careful and submissive into its ever-winding lair, where the swinging of its victims in the air causes a homely breeze. The creature itself taps, incessantly, on one sole spot on the firm dirt caking it's thigh. You ask it, who is worst in this world, and it answers, in a earth rumbling whisper and with blown eyes, 'No, it is the dog that is bad, worst of all, for it sniffs out the home of all the creatures of the earth, and yips gleefully before it devours my kin and my lessers, all in one swallow, down to its graveyard of a gullet.'_ ' The voice grows a timbre, and it is high, and the gentleness is waxing like the belly of the pregnant moon. Just like the swollen, child-euphoric moon, it hides a side so very dark. The voice gains teeth, large, and sparkling, and matching it's albicant, unblinking eyes. Those so very large teeth, with so very large fangs, are tantalizingly close to your throat. Firm enamel on the fragile skin just above your carotid artery, and you can’t help but tilt your neck so the slowly forming beast can pierce you better.)

 

His quivering grows, as something heavenly comes into the forefront of his brain, and it brings associations which would be best to remain down, down, down, and yet, he can’t help but savour it. His misery is only stroked by these thoughts, and he curls into himself as if he can fold into nothing, and perhaps then, the emptiness under his breastbone will cease, and so will this thrice-damned rain. _He’s_ late, he knows, even as he has no watch on his wrist, nor a sun to tell him what hour it is. He doesn’t overly mind, for, _he_ had always preferred being the very pinnacle of popular trends. Being fashionably late happens to be one of those thing, unfortunately. Maybe it would be best if he would be left alone today, however, and maybe he might degrade into moss because of this damn deluge, and the next day he could be mistaken for part of this rock.

 

(' _One asks the dog, and one finds her to be a bitch, covered in yapping and whimpering pups. The dog is tired, but resolute, and beckons her babes out of the cavern before she speaks with you. Her eyes are dark and lightless, but carry a wisdom that terrifies the bones, the bump-bump-bump of creatures' spines, and sings a warning of her ire if you are not as wise as she. You ask, who is worst in this world, and she speaks up, tail lazily shifting through the dust of her home, and her voice is gentlest of all, and speaks of times immemorial. 'No, it is not I that is bad, for the_ ** _worst_** _of all things is the rabbit.' When you inquire on why, the dog shifts, before lowly muttering a simple, curt answer that sends shivers down the very spine the dog can almost lick from there. 'The rabbit is worst of all, for none think it able to be the worst of all.'_ 'The voice grows in volume, it's parable growing to tangle around your ears like vines, the voice grows louder, until it's very silence is loudest of all, and it's limbs manuvour it to sit on your very pleasure center, and it leans in, fingers stroking through soft hair, and mouth agape as if still telling the story to you, but, instead, it pants. It hungers, yet it can never be sated.)

 

No. It’s best if he comes, because _he_ is the sole one who’s able to instill anything in his chest. At least, anything but the insatiable hunger in his breast, anything but it, and, most likely, a liquid kind of goo that proves that he still has a heart in there, somewhere, and that he hadn’t forsaken it months ago. The oranges and golds of autumn are damp with liquid, and they are weighed heavy by the tears of a depressed god, just as his own hair is clinging to his forehead, caking his forehead and cheeks with soggy hair, and his jacket does nothing to stop the dense drops of water from his hair to drip down his chest, his belly, and down to the very tips of his frigid toes. The boy aches for company and isolation, and the thought brings forth associations.

 

(' _One goes to the rabbit, and it's home is the green pastures where every other animal lives, and it's eyes wrinkle in simple, unadulterated joy as you near it. It's pelt is pure, and colourless; sinless, and it's expression is the very picture of innocence. You ask it who is worst in this world, and it replies with a simple, monosyllabic '_ ** _I_** _' before it gobbles you up, whole, with no room in it's heart for regret. It is now you that is rocked into oblivion, and it is warm, and peaceful.'_  The voice is hushed, tenderness in it's features, and it presses a kiss against your brow, before it lies on you, stagnant, and ever-silent, sempiternal, jowls still and it's redolence bringing forth memories of petrichor. It never shudders, nor does it bring rage upon you ever again, and, deep in your bones, your golden marrow, you know this to be what is most unfair.)

 

The boy scrambles to his feet as another, fair haired one approaches, one who shows his emotions on his sleeve, one whom he positively adores, whom the brunet would readily give his love and blood to, and, he knows, he _knows_ that the other feels the same. And, as suspected, there’s the flutter of a thousand little bugs in his heart, and the boy staggers over to the other, whose eyes gleam with something wonderfully unknown, and, it’s not for the first time that the brunet aches for the touch of another. What he says to the other isn’t heard over the roaring of nature, who sees it fit to utterly deafen the world with her rage, and not leave room for what must be said. His frustration is expressed through a growl, and he looks up to the heavens as if to scold them, but, all at once, everything goes deafeningly silent and still, and suddenly all the light in the world is blue, a gelid blue that only speaks of ice, of cold, and of closeted wishes that only now have surfaced, and, the light comes from in front of him.

 

Dipper Pines looks at what he knows, and what he has only the greatest associations with, and he sees a blue eyed wraith of a boy he, somewhere deep, knows has never been who he seems to have been. There’s the sickening, wet crunch of something raw and barely healthy nearby, and it isn’t hard to deduce what it might be. The other’s mirth is audible, as something fleshy and human melts away, only to be replaced by something utterly monstrous in every sense of the word.


	2. Rediscover

                    ..○..                                  

_**“The Wendigo.”** _

 

Dipper, despite the fact that all he has done for the past several hours is glance at page after page of yellowed papers that carry that well known stench of old, _still_ feels a rush of excitement when he reads another passage, another _paranormal_ creature, that, inexplicably, decided to dwell within the narrow limits of the town of Gravity Falls, and nowhere else. This creature, drawn on the page with charcoal, and messy and rushed, is of a creature large and covered in shining fur, with staring, bloodshot eyes that just _tell_ of its immense, overpowering need. Of what? The name, and the passage tell what it is all too clearly.

 

It's claws are long, and outstretched like sabers, and it has teeth that seem too big for its maw. And, truly, the foot long teeth seem to pop out of its jaws, as if already eager to do whatever it needs to do. Something dark and viscous, most likely dirt or another similar substance seems to be caking it's pelt, and, despite its most fearsome appearance, two elegant, thin antlers sprout from the sides of its head, reaching up, up, to as if attempting to pierce the belly of the heavenly bodies. Despite the gore, and the filth, and vileness clinging to the beast, the antlers themselves seem to belong to a most elegant doe, all sharp angles and twig thin extensions trying to claim the air greedily. Dipper can imagine the points of the antlers reaching up to stab the swollen belly of the sun, and he can almost envision florescent orange juices dripping down ultimately curved structures, until it all gathers like a crown on the beast's head.

 

Like all creatures in this book, there is a degree of beauty to its deformity.

 

_**"It is a most fearsome creature, with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. I found this particular fact out when I stumbled across one rummaging across the local cemetery, digging up the dirt with its claws. It's claws weren't meant for digging, like The Molepeople's appendages, and yet it dug, as if in a frenzy to get to the rotten flesh 6 feet below. Despite me being close, and the wind blowing towards it, it didn't attack me. Instead, it dug at the ground, with claws meant to skewer and slash instead of dig, until it howled in pain as a few nails broke off. It then wailed as it knelt on the ground, and seemed to mourn the loss of its claws."** _

 

Dipper can almost see the scene unfold in front of his vision, and he lets out an involuntary shudder as he can almost feel the wind licking at his skin, his face, and the stench of blood and filth attacking his senses, and from this thought, his body is now covered in millions of little goosebumps, all criss-crossing across his body, making a vast pattern that requires him to feel all his skin at once to understand it. Still, he reads on, for the scene written is clearly not done.

 

His body shifts his position, ever aware of the fact that he prefers to lay on one side, and the warnings that come with doing that _'_ _Dipper, you'll get your organs all lying on your right side!'_ , and he is ever aware of the creak that the bed makes at the movement. The brunet freezes, his vision ceasing and  heart thumping faster and breath utterly and completely stilled, with his lungs quickly pleading for more, and momentarily turns off his flashlight, to listen to any stirrings that his twin in the other bed might make.

 

It is silent for a period of three minutes, and, smugly, and with a heart that is not doing any unwanted acrobatics in his chest, he turns the light on, and pulls his toes into the warmth of the blanket. Then, he takes them out, as he judges himself to be _too_ warm with every part of his body under the blanket, and, furiously puts away the thought of ' _The monsters will bite your toes if you don't put them away_ '. He reads on.

 

_**"I took a chance, and, honestly, I blame the alcohol still in my system for this, for I made the mistake of approaching a creature I knew could kill me, and already displayed a desire for human flesh. I approached it, my steps moderately clumsy, and while it's ears did twitch, it didn't move. Soon, I was close enough to see the sinews of muscle under its fur, and the various patches of bare skin that lay across its surface. In some spots, I found tattoos, not ritualistic or having any purpose, merely there for decoration. Its behaviour was tame, and by this point it had curled into itself. Despite the filth on it, honestly, it looked young. Its fur looked soft and not yet course in areas, and yet, it was bigger than I by a good foot and a half. It let out a human-like sob, and I left before I could think on the implications of all the knowledge I gathered."** _

 

The implications hit Dipper too, and his brows furrow. This information, along with the name, itched some part of his memory, and with a bit of prodding, the scratch to this itch was given when the information was shaken loose. ' _Wendigos_ ', he remembers, slowly reeling out the memories as he licks his lips and sets down the journal on his pillow, ' _are humans who have committed cannibalism, and have turned into monsters because of their transgression_.' Dipper blinks at the page; The creature staring back, and while he reads the few following words, he doesn't quite understand it, doesn't memorize it, as a pit in his belly echoes outwards, and grows, like a blight, to engulf all the caverns of his torso, and leaves his heart slow and sluggish, even as his brain burns like a brilliant, untameable star.

 

Dipper decides this is all for the day, and he closes the journal, just a few pages from where the blank pages begin, and shuts his eyes as his forehead lands on the leather cover. Perhaps this is a level of desecration that one must amend, but he will care later, because right now he needs something to center himself, to stop his mind from spinning onwards and onwards until he's left nauseous through his sole efforts. The brunet, with puffy bags already starting to tint under his eyes, shifts his head and pulls his toes under the blanket, before making a large exhale and shaking his head. There's a weak smile at his lips, and he rises, picking up the journal like it was a sacred tome, and gently placing it by the end of the bed that has a few _less_ unwashed clothing.

 

He must have been wrong, he reasons, or perhaps the..The Wendigo deserved it. After all, only cannibalism can birth a Wendigo, and it is a sin most deadly indeed. But his mind still stirs, and his blood still boils under the surface of his slowly tanning skin, and he lies on his right side--' _Organs, Dipper! '--_ and pulls his legs to his center of gravity. He swallows several times, staring at the blemishes on the wall, before he closes his eye to get some sleep. He's already sluggish enough already, adding more sleep deprivation wouldn't aide him at all.

 

However his thoughts still swirl, and when he hears the first bird start tweeting beyond the window, he throws his feet over the bed, scoops up the journal, and goes in nothing but a shirt and his boxers to the roof. By the time Grunkle Stan's bellowing for him to, and he quotes: 'Get your plush tooshes in the kitchen, kids, and eat the moldy, animate f--hecking pancakes I've made for all of you runts out of flour that I found in a shoe.' he is already regretting not sleeping, and he is slightly consoled by what he has read more, and is already thinking over what to write himself in the blank pages of the journal.

 

Perhaps an update on gnomes is in order, and, perhaps, it is worth investigating the creatures that are less described in this book. He cradles the journal like it's a stuffed toy, stuffs it under his covers, before hurrying downstairs to where a ladle-weilding Stan awaits, with pancakes that ought to be written about in the journal sitting on the table, giving Dipper food poisoning with their glower alone.

 

..▲..

 

As is duly expected, the sole consumer of what was most obviously detrimental to one's health, Mabel, is soon permanently glued to the basin of the toilet, with her hair tied back in a ponytail in one of her rare, lucid moments. Stanford hovers by the door, looking sheepish in his outfit of wife beater and old man briefs, and periodically asking if she,  by her throne of porcelain, was alright. Every time, a squeal would come from the depths of the bathroom, informing the older man that _yes_ , she was alright, and she'd soon come out, shining like a million, gazillion suns, and that he really should calm his old man boobs down. Most often these words would be followed by another bile filled retch, and the cycle begins anew.  It's amusing.

 

Dipper, while a touch farther away, and burning the remains of these _very_ toxic pancakes with a cloth over his nose and mouth, still listened, and worried none-the-less, it was clear. While the worry may not have been along the likes of what he had experienced when the slightly older twin had her romantic rendezvous with the zombie-gnomes, it still persisted, like a sticky tar to his limbs and senses.  Once the glorious creak of a door opening  came, his feet had already rushed him to where the invalid, and he watched, blinking, at the foolish beast that glowed in all her now-pale glory, had emerged from her lair, and now was sheepishly smiling at all those she has worried. Stan's grating, deep voice was already and awkwardly,  in his little peculiar way, spouting off apologies in time with the twitches of his limbs, before Mabel raised a finger, and passed judgement on the sinner in front of her.

 

"Grunkle Stan." The name rolled off her tongue like most dramatic of death sentences, her tongue and teeth accenting each word with importance. "Your punishment for this most--Uh, uh, well, really _bad_ travesty is to.." There she paused for dramatic effect, as the older man raised an eyebrow as if to proof just how maddening of a display this was, but the thin layer of sweat glazing his skin told of something else.  The girl, grinning,  duly prodded her brother with a weak digit, interrupting his work of the removal of the scrunchie  from her hair, away, before he could be injured when she would strike a pose worthy of the most hammiest person that could ever be envisioned.

 

" _The supermarket ."_ The pose was, indeed, made, with Dipper barely having made out of the feet-arms-hair radius, and sagely looks at their Grunkle, who already was coming up with excuses and words to get him out of this hole. But, to the twin's credit, their puppy eyes were large and wet, and their lips big and trembling, and the old man, with a groan, soon bent to their desires.  His shoulders crumbled inwards, and a hand swatted the air, leaving the twins to do nothing but rejoice in their victory over the tyrant-whom-withholds-all-produce.

 

The old man stumbled away, a mumbled 'Get dressed, kids', as he contemplated what must be the most devilish pair of children he had ever seen, staring at him while fist bumping each other.  Within minutes, both impish creatures were dressed in their clothes, with Dipper wearing his dirty clothes yet _another_ time, and Mabel professing her dislike of the situation by duly scrunching up her nose and looking away, with a comment that sent Dipper replying with comments of his own, and, in the end, both twins had crossed their arms and decided not to speak until someone apologies. This law crumbles the moment once Dipper spots, what he assumes, is a magnificent beast, but it in fact a gathering of raccoons swarming over whatever it is they swarm over. Over what the raccoons argue over can never be stated with a human tongue, for it shall anger the Raccoon Deities.

 

It was amusing, this display, one  could think as they hovered over the speeding car, before riding on the wind, to a spot known and yet unknown.  A regular old life of one out in the country, this was, save for the life with an odd relative whom houses two brilliant children, and paranormal things living in the very earth and sky, with quirkiness riding on the wind, so very eager to approach and wreck havoc--And, well,  perhaps this wasn't an average life, on further thought. But there's nothing carnally filling, nothing that _truly_ strokes the senses, nothing that glides over flesh and returns something dark and tinted. It's tame, this world, and the future that is to come; It's displeasing. _Chaos,_ glorious and unpredictable, with no true morality must reign, for anything _fun_ to occur, and, well..One little being, with a hot core tucked away in its innards, believes that it is the very being to spice up the game.

 

The being casts its gaze over to a boy, over the seas, and over popular thought,  and sees this child trembling with the nightmares that cakes his skin, and swirl around his ankles, staring at nothing but the tiny little formless shadows that gnaw on his toes. They tickle, and yet they bite off all his appendages with no effort, their gold eyes blinking as their Father comes.  The being's eye wrinkles with glee, as the boy, with hooded eyes and tired limbs, moves the muscles of his neck so that he bares his throat to him, just like a human should. A deal is a deal, after all, and the gold being's side has long since been fulfilled. Soon, too soon, the being will receive two little gifts, much fairer than myrrh, gold, and frankincense. A full, elated belly, and the feeling of  sunlight and dirt on his skin for the first time in centuries.                                                                    

                                                                                                                                              

 ..○..

 

No, no, ye--No. No, there isn't it anywhere, or at all, there's nothing here at all. Nothing at goddamn at all, it's all completely void, and _empty and--_ Well, those words are misleading, this _is_ a grocery store and thus has a hell of a lot of things, but what Dipper so _very_ needs isn't here. His brows furrow, and a fist reaches up to halfheartedly rub at his eyes, as if the action is only meant to spend the time. Despite what must be his sixth look at the shelf, the dark grey felt pens that he absolutely, positively, _absolutely_ needs are not here, and while his breaths are controlled, and the thrumming of energy in his veins under his control as well, the irritation must still be clear on his face for a finger prods him _again_ , and a face looks at him with worry. His eyes take a microsecond longer to look over at the object that tortures, and the girl stares back, smiling with nervousness on the delicate corners of her lips.

 

"Hey, bro-bro. I'm sure we'll find it another day--It's not like they sold them all, now did they?" The girl tucks some of his hair behind his ear, and pats his back as he lets out a long sigh, and slowly blinks at the display in front of him. He only lightly nods, pursing his lips, and lets himself be dragged  away by a hyper sibling to Sugar Land, aka, the gigantic aisle of all things wonderfully and sickeningly sweet.  Cereals with a ratio of one cup of grain to a gallon of sugar, and candies that are, effectively, coloured sugars, and, well, one gets the confection filled picture.

 

A haven for the sugar junkie Mabel, who despite her earlier queasiness, is all too eager to mix up her demonic _Mabel Juice_ . What Dipper sees being put into the basket are things that should never be combined, and what does _playdough_ have to do with anything? Most likely, given the way Mabel's brain is structured, it's the secret ingredient, and the thought of never, ever, ever,  _ever_ drinking Mabel Juice is further solidified in Dipper's brain. Like he needed another reason not to drink that neon, plastic dinosaur stuffed hell.

 

_( It's alright if you are led where you do wish to be led, for you are a sheep, a complacent, doe-eyed sheep that is all-willing. Even the butcher's blade against the lambskin of your neck would be alright, for you know that whom you trust, the man whom fed you, the man whom nursed you, and the man whom gave you your fill of hay would do nothing to hurt you. Even the blade lodged in your viscera, cutting through slick skin, and thick fat, and trying to chop through carefully grown bone would do nothing to burst that all loving bubble of yours. For the blade had gifted you with kindness once, and that all you ever need.)_

 

There's a large carton shoved in his face, cardboard yet sturdy, and showing the picture of a parrot with a spoon of coloured cubes, and wide eyed, jittery children looking on with barely veiled excitement. _QubedQubes ,_ was the name, confusing q's and all. A touch repetitive, but given its price, it seemed  pretty popular. Behind the carton, something toothy and brown-eyed stares at him, and awaits his approval. Despite the fact that Dipper can _clearly_ see that this will get him to be a diabetic, he nods, and the box is shoved into the basket at Mabel's wrist.

 

"Dip-Dip, come on, you've been dead the entire day. Why don't you pick something out, huh? Maybe some Ghostybites, or Count Choculas!" With a sweep of her hand, the paranormal cereals are showcased, before she giggles at something that is locked in her brain, and her brain alone.

 

”I'd rather have that pen, thank you very much." Dipper drawls, casting half interested looks at the sugary delights, and, halfheartedly picking up a pack of Jolly Ranchers. Mabel's grin grows, as in her vastly wise and almighty opinion, her brother is all but cured of the grumps that plagued him. Of course, in her opinion, they most likely have little forms, of perhaps little gooey balls, that cling to a person's back and suck away their joy and all that. Actually, maybe those are actually a thing? Dipper has to reread the journal just a few more times to actually be able to recall all the content. Not a photographic memory, but just close enough to make it seem like he almost does.

 

"You go look for your darned pens again, and I, and _I_ _-_ -" Mabel puffs her chest, gathers her energy, and in a voice that only conveys seriousness. (Dipper can spot some Pixy Stix clinging to her teeth. Now, the question was, does Mabel have a newly found penchant for shoplifting, or does her already-impressive stash extend to areas in the town?) " _I'm_ going to look for _boys_ by the window."

 

"Let me guess. You're going to tuck your hair behind your ears, give yourself eye shadow with a shade of powder candy, and look mournfully out the window?"

 

"You know me too well, brother, too well.." Her eyes narrow, and she pats him on the shoulder, her look overly-the-top suspicious as her hands find themselves to her non-existent hips. "Don't betray me to the copiers, will you, lil bro?" Just like that, with those ominous words spoken in a tinny,  adolescent girl's voice, the object that made them leaves, overly large brown eyes stuck to him, even as she forced to go backwards to do this, bumping into a store clerk that yelped their surprise. After that, Mabel scurried away, to the depths of the five aisle supermarket.  Dipper decides to make himself scarce as well.

 

Dipper, with his hands holding the bag of Jolly Ranchers like armour to his chest--They were hard enough in any case--passes by Grunkle Stan shortly, and watches for a few seconds as the man struggles to get the perfect can of pickles--One that has a winning number of 8 inside, all for the price of 99 cents. In his quest, it seems the man has gotten over half of the off-brand pickles, and has only found one suitable pickle jar. It's amazing what a little determination can do, especially in the hands of a vicious cheap skate. No doubt, he'll pass out at how many purchases Mabel has tucked away in her cart.

 

It definitely won't be a pretty display, and at that thought, and with a grimace, Dipper quietly sets the Jolly Ranchers with some eggs, setting out for the outside, where Grunkle Stan would only come to once he's gotten over all his Ebenezer Scrooge hysteria, and would emerge with Mabel, who would glow with the victory of a battle. She'll definitely win, even if she has to bear a few losses. Dipper knows this fact, intimately.

 

The girl preening herself to her own visage in the window, as he walks by, with mismatched eye shadow and an opened Pixy Stix by her feet is a monster in school debates. While she, in her oversized sweaters and cherubic cheeks might seem harmless, and might tend to forget facts, those facts that she remembers, the coiled snake under her skin, and her own brutal array of emotional responses have caused many an upperclassman to throw in the towel.  Have stunned and amazed many a classmate, who usually expects the girl to energetically go off the point, and fall into the proverbial academic hole.  She, like Alice, does actually tumble into the hole, but if Dipper is there, he can act as her..Anti-White Rabbit. Black Rabbit? White Fox?

 

Usually, if they're in the same class, Dipper is the one to balance out her emotions with the logical, much to the teacher's approval.  Mabel deserves every mark, and everyone knew it from the day she slay her first victim from the podium but somehow the _criteria_ only make her a C-level student in most studies. But give her a brush, and even one little pot of paint, and she gets perfect marks.

 

There she goes, he would think fondly, Dipper's fantastic, ruthless little girl.

 

_( Of course you aren't jealous, of how many people look at her, and admire her boundless energy and charisma, of course you, the emerald little beetle, don't glow with envy when you see her talking with yet another friend, whose name she's memorized in less a second, and all their wants, and their desires, and everything that would want them to **stay .** )(There is no false beat in his chest, nothing wrong in the bu-dump bu-dump bu-dump of a million little beady eyed beasts grazing on the plainlands.)( Nothing wrong but the lack of a heart, and only a million, trillion stars, that no matter their colour or heat, can't compare to the lonely, fleshy, gooey thing which is inside everyone else.) _

 

Dipper swallows, and his hand pulls on the stretchy skin of his elbow, as he sets himself outside the walls of the supermarket, blinks desultory at the dandelion growing out of the pavement, reaching towards the heavens, greedily looking for survival despite the oppressive pressure of concrete on little roots. It's like a little survivor, he contemplates, as he cocks his head. For a moment, he wonders where is this plant's spawner, and what kind of offspring would this one have, if they would look anything like it, or if they would rebel, and mutate, into something grander or lesser than it. Maybe it wouldn't even have any spawn, maybe it would be stomped out before it could go grey and cloud-like, culled like the weed it truly was, despite whatever personifications or descriptions he might gift it.

 

Dipper found himself wondering, hoping, that nothing had happened to the Journal he had left behind at home.                  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

 ..▲..

 

As much as he wishes to rip out every page, as much as he wants to destroy every bit of these blasted Journals, the newly remade creature can only tear out a few of only _this_ one, and gently, so that no tatters or remnants remain. It's a pain  in his now-very-literal ass, but he does allow himself to indulge into rage and growing desperation when, with a snap of his fingers, he sets a few traitorous pages ablaze, with not even a flinch reaching him when he sees azure flames lick down his limbs, furiously trying to consume his flesh with their too-hot bodies, already trying to rebel against him in this form. However, he is still their master, and soon, the flames once again return to his digits. It is then that he allows himself to completely Unmake the work of his previous contractor, or, at least, just a bit of it.

 

Now, it is the furthest reaches of the stars, and the looming furiosity of the trees that are left to him. Him? Him, he contemplates, with a finger running down his still bare, blemished skin, it's not his fault that this form was born with a thing sticking out of its thighs, even if it is awkward looking, and as far as he sees it, useless. He indeed deems it to be useless, but he won't risk the blood loss. Now. What to wear, and, well, he _knows_ that the attic, and a room nearby, hides boxes with half a century-old clothes that would fit _perfectly_ . With a thrill in his very-corporeal bones, he marches, swaying and still unused to _feeling_ his limbs, down the stairs, barely avoiding the moronic human fiddling with--...whatever technology it is it's fiddling with.

 

From then on, it is the looming, rootless, forest, and perhaps then, he can, like a cosmic orchestrator,  cause the sky and earth to blur into an odourless, colourless sludge, that would be so much more easily digested. Or perhaps it is the chunks and grittiness that is more pleasurable to the taste? Well, one must learn such things, for then why does one live?

..○..

 

Dipper doesn't have any clue how much time passes. How many ticks balance with the tocks, nor what he had been thinking not even a second ago. His eyes find themselves affixed to the dandelion, or, rather, where it _was ._ In its place, now sat a plucked stem, leaking murky white fluid that was quickly drying upon exposure with the air. When did someone come by and pluck it? Dipper had completely not seen them,  nor felt, nor heard, or maybe he had but he simply _couldn't recall --_   

 

There is a noise, like the deep, breathy inhales of a creature that has never breathed and has decided it's vice is the very air around it, and it causes his eyeballs to jump out of his skull, and his heart to leap to his throat. _What was that_ was interrupted by _Is it the abnormal_ and, really, that shouldn't have made that bubble of giddy glee, nor should it have caused his brain to switch from fight-or-flight to investigate, of all things, but his eyes are carried away to where the sound came, and it came from the patch of grass and wild that surrounds every bit of this town. He licks his lips, and stares at the grocery store, where his family fumble around, and manuvour through the blandness of common life. Where there isn't the unknown, literally, breathing down his neck.

 

Should he, he contemplates, and all his tiredness seems to have disappeared. Dipper can almost spot his sister fluttering her eyes to whatever spotty teenager catches her eye, tilting her neck in what she imagines is a tantalizing way, and wooing him with stumbled over, awkward words, that leave one wondering on the depths of her libido, but not the depths of how far her charm might reach.

 

Should he, he asks himself, feet shifting and dandelion oozing life-fluid by his feet, as he can almost see his great uncle, heckling the supermarket attendants despite this place being the polar opposite of a flea market, and the brunet can almost see the annoyance in his eyes when he finds Dipper to have, temporarily gone. He won't care, Dipper knows, for Mabel is the favourite, but Mabel will worry, she will blink and call for him, before trying to follow him into the deep herself.

 

There's another breath, there are footsteps, and he is stuck between two desires, like the rock is stuck between the stability, the ordinariness, the safety of the earth, and the roaring, seductive danger of the sea that might just smooth Dipper out into something that doesn't remotely look like himself, or might smooth him out into something beautiful and new, like the chrysalis of the butterfly, if it was able to comprehend on _why_ it was changing. If it was able to comprehend this, perhaps it would have regretted not transcending earlier.

 

(' _There's an endless road to rediscover, and what I need to do is take the step, and let the natural order of things_ _descend_.' His throat is sore, is oozing wine-red blood, and his voice nothing more but a gurgling remnant of once was. The vision of the world goes to glorious, all consuming sepia, and it's all that one needs to know that _it's_ here. One might assume that the panacea for loneliness is the touch of the divine, but it is the shove of the sacrilegious, of the figure rising from ash and ruination to truly make the heart throb, and the brain to clear of all maladies. The dotted, not-quite skin of it excretes a scent most intoxicating, but it is the depths of those eyes which truly drive him to drunkenness, to wooziness, and to a weakness of the spirit which show cases all of his most disgusting secrets, his most foul, basal emotions. And yet, it is those eyes which do not pass judgement, and they are compassionate, as hands reach out to clasp the other's. It is a blasphemy most intimate, and yet no scolding comes. Instead, there comes an urge, and enlightening truth)

 

( _'Nay, there's an endless road to_ **_discover_.** ' It is, perhaps, this phrase that most causes excitement to flare up in the veins, and a beaming show of teeth to come from the bottom of a mirthful soul.)

 

Dipper steps out towards the wood, sluggish at first, but his feet soon carry him far swifter than they ever might if he had done this in an atmosphere of dull normality, and not the stinging, wakeful, spicy one that causes his hair to stand on end, and causes his blood to shrilly sing with the thrill of euphoric discovery, _of hand-sweatening danger--_

 

Of future, blissful acknowledgment, just perhaps. And perhaps, it is this last thought that makes him go most quick on the thin, barely worn path, to where the trees tower over his small, slim frame, and coo at him with the pity of a thousand fat-hearted pups, and where the creatures of the earth might turn out wiser than him, wiser than the very twinkling stars glued to the heavens above, and the creatures of the sky larger than him, large enough to open their unhinged jaws, and swallow him up like he was nothing but a succulent little morsel that was barely worth the time of mind.  Where Dipper reigns supreme, with what little knowledge has been passed down to him, where he is supreme because of his curiosity, and his willingness to do anything.

 

( _Can you get rid of **her** , however? Can you completely cut away all ties, all hints of humanity, and succumb to what is barely better than a **demon**?)_ ( _No, and that is not a world he wishes to live in.)_

 

 ( ~~ ** _Soon.)_**~~

                              

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect an update every day, folks, from here on out, it'll probably a distance of years between updates. I can feel it in my bones.
> 
> Also, it is not recommended that one uses any kind of food produce as make-up.
> 
> Once again, if you spot any mistakes, do tell, even though I now do have a beta. As well as that, do not be frightened by the wait, for I'm currently away visiting another city, and am quite busy. I am writing as much as I can, and an update should be expected Thursday/Friday.


	3. Mimicry

..✄..

 

"Hey daddy?" Asks the the young man, with fluffy brown locks and dark bags under darker eyes, and with a shaking hand holding a quivering mug of coffee and a certain demure tone in his high voice. There was no one in the room but him, and he held a wistful smile, as he spoke to his reflection in the plain cup. There was a ring on his left hand, the gold leaf scratched away to reveal pink base metal, and if removed, there would be a tan line that one would spot from a mile off.

 

"You know how you, one day, asked when you would be a grandpa?" Perhaps it was a bit too much, the man thought, to be holding his mug with two hands, and huddling into a small ball on his favourite coach, in his empty home, but there wasn't much else he could do. There must be something wrong with him, he thinks, as he looks at the slowly cooling coffee like he expects it to answer any moment.

 

There was definitely something wrong with him, for he's been doing this for the past 18 years, talking to something that wasn't there, and he didn't even have the joy of having his brain create the figure of his father. No, he was messed up, fucked up, with fucked up little spawn on the way, but yet he still dreamt of hallucinating like one dreams of possessing immortality, or being forever wealthy.

 

"Today you'll be one, daddy. And I'm going to take your crown of 'Dad of the Year', forever, at long last." The snort he made was more like a sob, his shaking causing the lukewarm coffee to start spilling onto his lap, and his vision swam with the reds of sunrise and the blacks and blues of the room. The brunet slaps the spilling mug onto the table, before cradling his head with his hands, harshly pulling on his hair, and staring at the rug he got from great-grandpa like it was everything he had ever held dear. The one with the Eye of Providence, not the alchemical signs. He could swear it looked back, as the man started to crumble into little, itty pieces.

 

"A-At least--" And his breath hitched when a proper, loud, raw sob came from his mouth, and his hands dug into his eyes to try and quell the hot tears trying to dig groves into his still youthful face.

 

"--I, I hope I will." The man admitted, pulling up his limbs on the couch, and drawing the interest of the heavenly bodies, the interest of the hundred-eyed-trees, and the interest of the furthest quasars, given life, and brilliant sentience.

 

"They--Michelle and the kids, they--" There's nothing but him in this house, nothing but him around for miles, and even his own tattoos stare back, with pity in their expressions. He's angry at them, at _everyone_ who came up to him last night, touching his shoulder, looking into his eyes with sorrow and that _damnable pity--_

 

But there isn't nothing that can be done, not then, not now, and now it's just the inevitable looming over him, glowing with grim capriciousness, and ever so biased against him, and his blood, and his daddy's blood and the blood of his great-great-great-great-grandchildren too.

 

"I'm--I'm ready to do anything to get 'em here with me. To, to--Daddy, I just want a family. Like the one you never got to properly enjoy." It's a prayer, a benediction by this point. There's no other word for it, except those few,  except, perhaps, begging, and pleading, to a higher power that he _knows_ doesn't exist.

 

Then there's a light, forcing apart his eyelids, and unlike what his fears may have led, the light isn't blue or even gold--It's _emerald_ and what it brings to his brain, the visions, the sounds, the smells, is the second most brilliant thing he has ever seen, but only second, he thinks, vaguely .

 

For he married the most brilliant thing.

 

..○..

 

The slap of the wind, the still-wet mire under the soles of his feet, and the looming sense of sweetness on the very tip of his tongue all came with Dipper now, as trees and rocks quickly replaced themselves with other ones as he would run and turn and stop and listen and run and turn and stop and listen for _it_ , the creature that would spring from his grasp the moment he would approach it. The grocery store was already fading from view, starting to get devoured by the congregation of trees and fauna, tall and smug, that ever so carefully wrapped their digits around his very presence, smothering all noise from the outside, and amplifying everything from the _inside ._

 

And what came from the inside was utterly nothing save for the labours of two different set of lungs, and the fumbling sprints of only one. There was no high tweeting of birds, no distant patters from the feet of animals, and, at some point, the wind quieted as well, for there was no rustle of leaves, and there was no twitching of the tree' s twigs and branches. Perhaps if Dipper, with his wide eyes and thrumming blood, would stop and listen to the utter silence roaring in his senses, maybe then, he would forsake his quest to follow the unknown object.

 

But Dipper had not even a drop of wisdom in him, and combine that lack of amber wisdom in his bottomless pool of fluorescent recklessness and curiosity, and there sat the catalyst of disaster. What could be the crux was the lurking, unnerving green that clung to the edges of his mind and refused to be scrapped off, and they would pipe up, jiggling in collective joy, and called themselves _heavenly._

 

But with his eyes could only see forward, and even that vision was limited, like of those whom were plagued with tunnel vision, so Dipper could see nothing of this fault, and he could see nor hear any oddness along the flow of the world, and, because of that, all was well. It's all completely alright, and soon, Dipper would be bathing in the endorphins, the high, that came with a discovery. He would peer at the little thing he would find, take it all in, and gasp in awe and wonderment at what exactly the world could churn out.

 

The breaths, starting to become wheezes, suddenly turned to the left, and, Dipper duly followed, skipping over rocks and bushes, and while stray roots _did_ attempt to grab his ankles, and try to lead him down, but all but one were evaded, much to his own pleasure. One stray object, however,  a root, or a rock, he didn't _know_ what it was, but it took him down, made his throbbing heart skip a beat, and his eyes widen with fear as he started to flail.

 

His hands shoot out in front of him, and when a fraction of a second later, when he landed, the boy's hands were bleeding and dotted with torn skin, and his right knee was no better, but to his credit he rose immediately, not even hobbling. Adrenaline was a mighty thing, it gave energy and a certain fillingness that gave one the sense of might,  and its power was proven as he caught up to the panting _thing._

 

Or. Or he should have, at least. Dipper, grinning ear to ear and panting himself, spun around and listened closely to the breaths, but at some point, they started to fade with no direction to follow, and Dipper's expression started to follow. He spun around, taking a few steps in one direction, or the next and his thoughts started to lowly simmer, eyes narrow, and wariness creep onto him like a particularly malicious animal. The tension was palpable, and the hairs at the back of his neck started to creep up and rise.

 

Only now was the suffocating silence noticed, in its full entirety, and the oppressive pressure of the air was beginning to make its mark on the edges of his thoughts. Like little nicks, done with boredom, and donning the surface of whatever wooden object is at the receiving end.

 

Dipper breathed, and eased his posture when, much to his dismay, it seems the creature had all but left. There weren't any stray breathes, there wasn't much of anything, and that wasn't a glorious though in and of itself.

 

A day wasted, he concluded, after a few minutes of his sweat starting to cool, and the aches of his body making themselves visible, and with heaviness in his limbs and body, he moved back, dragging his feet and all but deflated into something definitely not resembling what he had been before. There was a flicker of something in the corner of his vision, and his feet halted their movement, but after a moment's consideration, he turned, and his eyes turned as wide as saucers and breath stuttered to a stop.

 

..?..

 

It, utterly, must be concluded (with _yes_ , yes, the most, the utterly most urgent sense of urgency) that yes, this is the way of the world, any stray lingering atom sized universes notwithstanding. Yes. It must be concluded that the way their breath comes it is utterly right, and anyone who says so is utterly and completely false, so much so, that it would be most prudent to fight over one's honour for it. It must be concluded that this recent sluggishness of light is most normal and needed indeed, as well as the crumbling, arid remains of what was hovering in front of their vision.

 

Sure, perhaps the image of a flying elm tree is, in many ways, odd, but only in basal ways, one would conclude. (concludeconcludeconclude **_yes_ ** ) The reality that we, as humanity, accepts is far odder Then than now. There's the serpent, large eyed and cold, curled up around their ankle, like a most wonderful illusion of abnormality there could ever be, and the serpent, hungrily, creeps to their belly and strokes the taut flesh, and it awaits, eager for them to be plaint, and frigid, and dull eyed.

 

It leaves nothing to the imagination, it doesn't let this most pleasant morsel slip out of sight, where it could go free, and grow limbs, and foster rebellion in its little fluttering heart nestled under its sternum.

 

But this is, perhaps, one of the more greatest signs of normality, and so, when they see someone large and gleaming and cold stroking over their consciousness, and tugging on a little string,  that's thin but elastic like a fresh catgut string, they accept it as What Must Be (yesyesyes) and they close their eyes, lean their head back, and let their lungs fill with bloody froth and fail.

 

. . .

 

_"It's only **me** that can love something like you." _

 

..○..

 

For a moment, Dipper can't see anything but eye-aching gold, and it makes his eyes want to water just as much as  want to pop out of his skull. Less than a moment passes before he's backpedalling, flailing and making noises high in his throat, and what was once only gold, is now a muddled vision of brown, gold, and red. Dipper, with a call for help already forming on his tongue, blinked, and found the figure which had invaded him to be--A particularly impish boy.

 

An impish boy, with gleaming eyes, and a grin that stretched ear to ear, just as pearly as the whites of his eyes. What was formerly eerie silence was replaced by the amused hoots of the other boy, as Dipper started to grow red and puffed, like an enraged bird. Distantly, one could hear the tweeting of birds, and the footsteps of soft does and bold bucks.

 

"Damn, kid--You should have seen your _face._ " The boy, in an accent that Dipper can't quite identify, says, before pressing forwards and coming closer, bleached hair clashing _terribly_ with muddy, discoloured skin, that seems more filth than body. The body is mottled with sickly green, and mauve, and nicks and scratches that seem to whisper that he, the blond stranger, just came out of a brawl, but the boy's movement isn't hampered. If anything, he looks far more _haughty_ like this, marked with the abuse of nature or someone else.

 

Dipper sputters in reply, and that is enough to cause the other to burst into guffaws again.

 

"You--Who're you--Did--Did you _follow me?!?"_  Dipper all but shrieks, matching the creepy, grinning kid's advancement with his own, but shied away from the touch that the other was all too eager to make.

 

"Yep." There isn't any guilt in his eyes, and he bounces on the balls of his feet, with his arms oddly held behind his back. At an angle, remarkably enough "Why wouldn't I?"

 

"' _Why wouldn't I'_ " Dipper mimics. "What does that mean? Do, you, _do you wanna_ \--"

The other boy, dressed in nothing better than rags, jumped in, before Dipper could continue that.

 

"Geez, not like that, ain't like that. I mean. Do you have any idea how amusing it was, you running into the woods,  like a particularly driven chick'n, after something that I still don't have a single inkling of what it coulda been?" The boy's head tilted, as the flush on Dipper's face turned a delicious shade of beetroot, and the bleached boy asked, with a thoughtful expression.

 

"Hey, are _you_ the chicken that crossed the road?"

 

What an utter, hyperactive, idiotic _ass_. Dipper all but storms past, fuming, and fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. The other boy blinks, before swaying, and following at the same pace as Dipper.

 

"Hey, don't give me that, Pine Tree--" The boy grins when Dipper snorts at the nickname, and suddenly turns, hopping over a stream, and leaving the other to bump into a tree. The dark skinned boy utters a large, displeased ' _ow_ _'_ , before sprinting to catch up. Won't this guy give up?

 

"--As I _just said_ , don't give me that, cause I'm on your side." This peculiar phrase caught Dipper's attention, and caused his step to fault, but he righted it, with more effort put in his escape attempt than before. What on earth was this stranger, no bigger nor no smaller than him, going on about? He looked about his age--But dangerously mussed up and shabby looking. Did a small town like Gravity Falls have homeless, especially one of the blond's age?

 

"Ah--Got your attention, right? Am I right, or am I right? Right, right? Oh--And I'm Bill. Nice to meetcha, grumpypants." The blond's eyes gleamed, and, Dipper felt something snap at 'grumpypants' and, harshly,  turned on his heel, and met the boy in a stare.

 

"Listen, dude--Stop following me." The blond-- _Bill_ stopped in his tracks, but didn't look hurt by Dipper's sharp, acidic tone of voice. Well, as acidic as a middle class preteen's voice could get. In fact, the kid looked satisfied by this turn of events. He should be, for Bill's trailing and annoying words had gotten him _victorious._

 

"I don't have any money, or candy, or, or anything else, alright? So--Just go home, to your parents, and go _away_." There was a long pause, where neither party, and both were given time to marvel over what the wind could make with each other's hair.

 

"You know--"

 

"No. Go away, Will, Bill, whatever."

 

"Just hear me out, alright, and then I'll scurry away, away from your all-must-be-Bill-less-sight. How about that?" The flats of Bill's palms were shown, and, faintly, he seemed to have lesser bruises than before. A trick of the light, no doubt.

 

"30 seconds, and you're gone." Dipper said, tapping his foot against the twigs and long decayed plant matter of the forest floor.

 

"Ah, that's unfair, I mean, I don't even know your name, Pine-Tree, no need to be so snappy."

 

"20 seconds."

 

"Right." Bill shifts his stance, and shoots a brilliant smile. "Right, I can make do with that. I'm 99.9999% sure I can get your lil' meaty attention on this, all right on this, like this is some particularly tasty steak and you're the gluttonous diner." His head is cocked again, and his eyes are distant.

 

"10 seconds." Soon, Dipper would shake this persistent, blabbing tail off, even if it meant jumping through fiery hoops and over large-mawed tigers.

 

"Hey, how does steak taste like?"

 

"You're out of time--"

 

"There's a Wendigo in town, and I think it's feasting on the corpses in the cemetery." The other boy, with his hands at his hips, looks as smug as can be as all wrath and objection from Dipper's face vanishes, and is replaced by shock, confusion, and a glorious tinge of curiosity, all making his face into a lovely painting of human emotion.

 

"Do I have your attention?" Bill asks, slowly, the wind making a crow's nest of his hair, and showing a few spots where the bleach didn't take, by the roots of his hair. Dipper stands still, half staring at his shoes, and half at nothing at all. All thoughts of what could have been the thing that had all but breathed into his ear was forgotten, in favour of the puzzle in front of him.

 

"Yes." The boy uttered, eyes rising to stare peculiarly at Bill, and the blond seemed to preen with the attention and looks cast his way. Like a particularly large bird, who would still be full of pride, despite whatever might cover its feathers, whether it be dirt, filth, or uncleanable gore.

 

"Well then." Bill seemed to be in thought, and seemed to be pondering over something on Dipper's person, and the brunet's skin prickled with the attention. "Seems that I've got to flesh all 'em teasing words out, don't I?"

 

The distant call of Dipper's name was ignored, and was forsaken all for the sake of what lay at hand, and, as ever, Bill's seemingly characteristic beaming grin was directed at him.

 

..○..

 

His fingers raise and thread through soft, black hair. It has the feeling and look of a raven's feathers, a colour akin to that of a sea on a stormy night, and a smell like the musk and sharpness of sweat combined with the pleasant, under-thrum of lingering sweetness that, he knows, deep in his head, is that of fear. Among dark hair is the plump, albicant spheres of mistletoe berries and their characteristic, tear-shaped leaves. The twigs of mistletoe, much like a laurel crown, encircle the dark haired boy's head, but are, in his opinion, far more elegant.

 

Elegance or not, he knows it, and the thin, silver filigree bracelets on the boy's ankles and wrists do as they must, for when the dark haired male's eyes flutter open, giving a good view of blue eyes-blue like stormy skies, brimming with ozone and electricity-he doesn't even try to struggle. Instead, the smaller male heaves a sigh and gives him a look: half nonchalance, but further in, brimming with wet nervousness.

 

He, the one who hovers above his detained, grins with the energy of a thousand suns and shifts his pure white robes. White speaks of purity, of sinlessness, of goodness that cannot be overcome by anything or anyone, and the irony does not escape the boy tied in the chair, who snorts and teases with an incredibly steady voice. The words don't register in the other's brain-not really, the dark haired boy seems to recognise as his captor lowers to his haunches, looking up, but not in any way submissive.

 

His fingers hold the tender meat of the other's thighs before they creep up, the prisoner's breath catching, and the energy in his veins ignored when the fingers continue and do not stop, save for when they are at his cheeks, and his head is forced to sit at an uncomfortable, neck-aching angle. The one clad in white looks up and seems to be utterly consumed by what he sees in front of him, for his tongue flicks to his lips with a flushed face. That, or the thrill of what is to come is truly powerful enough to elicit such a response, and make his pupils swell like a heavy-with-child ewe.

 

The fingers, and soon, the hands at the other's cheeks are gentle, soft, and as harmless as possible, but there is the ever-present threat that those nails, carefully groomed and pink, might dig in, dig in, and leave bloody welts in their path. It is then the trapped male's breath stutters to a stop, his eyes widening as his head starts to shake, as if he is trying to say _NoNoNo_ without the actual words. The eyes of the other who kneels, those eyes that shine and twinkle with delight, speak of a sole, and powerful, **_Yes._ **

 

The floor around them glows, a circle of gathered power and virginal blood and herbs, and the air begins to, very faintly, smell of thyme. The one in white begins to chant, and the other's mouth opens as if to scream, but no sound comes out, and the chanter raises his voice, just as the air starts to grow alight with brilliance and luminescence, and-for many, many moments-there is nothing but the continuous swell of power, pain, and the sugary-sweet scent of **_fear._ **

 

Soon, the one in the chair can't even breathe without stabs of pain. He wheezes, agony in every part of him-from his odd little toes, to his mistletoe encrusted scalp-all throughout his throbbing, aching organs. The eyes of the one who kneels are shut, but as they open, they glow with light, and the one in the seat's chest heaves with a sob, and his head lolls. The terror could be felt on his skin, and smelt, as it came in the form of gleaming sweat.

 

"Don't be scared, ▓▓▓▓. Even though I hate you with every fiber of my being, I won't ever, _ever_ , let you die." The trapped male's eyes gleamed with tears and a looming sense of despair. Eager, and with fingers slowly fraying at the tips, the kneeling one stood up to loom in the other's face, so very close to gasping lips and weeping eyes. There isn't any regret in his face as a hand reaches down and laces with the fingers of the other's hand.

 

"Alright?"

 

..○..

 

"So it's like this. Here I'm walking last night, absolutely _shimmering_ with awesomeness and might, my every step _oozing_ an undeniable measure of wrathful vengeance placed upon those who scorn me, my face completely slathered with charm--" Babbles the blond, skipping around Dipper, who, with purpose, strode towards where he could recall the cemetery was--Somewhere close to Robbie's house, he knew. His irritation, however, wasn't soothed by the prospect of what was to come, no, for his addiction to adrenaline hadn't lowered his tolerance to nonsense.

 

At least, the nonsense of strange, clingy kids with irregular blinking patterns.

 

"Skip the self-embellishment, Will," Dipper said, glancing to both his left and his right before crossing the road he had stumbled over. It looked like no car or person had gone on it for years-as weeds and dandelions were growing out of the asphalt, struggling to drink up some of the sun's brilliant rays as they fought each other-but, by this point, it was instinct.

 

"It's **_Bill_** , kid , and I shan't, for I'm simply born this way!" There he went, the _idiot_ , prancing on ahead, repeatedly tripping over his own feet as if he'd acquired them just an hour ago.

 

"You can't even say the phrase right. Get to the gist," Dipper grunted dismissively with a wave of a hand, relaxing his eyes from their squint when he went from the sunlight and heat of the open road to the cooler, shade covered forest that stretched on for as far as the eye could see.

 

"Geez, calm down! You'll give yourself a stroke if you keep that face up any longer! Actually, did I tell you how _high_ the chances of you having a stroke are what with all that stress an’ cholesterol you have stockpiled in ya’?"

 

" _Bill."_

 

"Right, right, I'll inflate my ego at a later time, I suppose. I mean-it'll probably be in a few minutes when you've calmed down from all this unorthodox Bill-hate. Everyone loves me! I swear! Except _you_. Well, for now, at least! I _know_ that you'll be kneeling in front of me in no time!" Bill spoke with more bubbly glee than, by all rights, should have shown. Dipper mentally paused, thinking over the possibility of having just burdened himself with a megalomaniac companion before he came along and cleared his head. It's not like a twelve year old (if Bill really _was_ one, that is) had never had the thought of laying all in their path to waste, leaving those who refused to be destroyed to a life of enslavement!

 

A twelve year old isn't a twelve year if they've never entertained thoughts of world domination.

 

"Right, anyway--I was wandering around, making my rounds--Stuff like that, when I see this big-ass, stinky-ass thing in the cemetery, digging up ol' McGucket's grave! It smelt-like- _really_ smelt, and had big claws and horns, and-well, ya know, I tried to get close to it--But hey! What do you know! They don't seem t’ like people all that very much, so, well--" The blond paused, blinking as if he'd just remembered that one _had_ to blink, before shrugging in a nonchalant way. "--I kinda-a _bit_ _-_ just a touch... _Ran for the hills."_ His last words were no better than a mushed, incomprehensible blur, and Dipper didn't even bother to think on them. "A bit, though! Just a bit! And on no fault of my own! It's thrice my size, ya’ know!"

 

"What makes you think it's a Wendigo, and not just some dude dressed up in smelly furs--" He was soon interrupted by Bill, of whom threw the other twelve year old a _look._

 

"And horns, and great big claws, and great big teeth coated in dirt and some other _rather_ suspicious red stuff? Kid, you think I'm an idiot? Cause the only--"

 

Dipper jumped right in before he'd be forced to fisticuff the smug boy.  Of course, all thoughts about actually _losing_ were dashed onto harsh rocks, like unloved and unwanted Greek babes.

" _Alright_ , I got it, but how'd you know it was a Wendigo, and not a Sasquatch or a Vampire or whatever? How'd you know what it was?" Bill became uncharacteristically silent. He wrung his hands, Dipper could see in the corner of his vision (and because of his stare, narrowly avoided planting into a stray tree.)

 

"Well my--My uh, gramps used to talk about 'em." Bill, despite the stutter, didn't seem to be lying--Well, for a split second he had, but the second had gone just as quickly as (or quicker than) it had come. He took on a morose expression, a twitch in his fingers growing to engulf his whole hand for a second when, suddenly, Dipper didn't feel the need to dig into exactly _why_ the words were stuttered. He wasn't that dumb. Still, he couldn't suppress his curiosity about _who_ this gramps was, and how he-of all of Gravity Falls' inhabitants-actually managed to _notice_ the strange happenings in the town.

 

"Your, your--Your grandpa and you actually know everything that's happening in Gravity Falls. Everything about--" Suddenly, Dipper was quite dry mouthed, and, well, the Wendigo could be forsaken for a bit. "About, about--" His mouth and throat had already been a touch parched at Bill's _confession_ , but one little beasty didn't equal the scope of knowledge about the paranormal that, recently, Dipper and Mabel had been blessed with.

 

Previously, he'd thought that nobody but him and his darling, favourite, _best friend_ of a sibling knew about this all--Or, at least, didn't let it show, didn't let their suspicious inkling reveal itself as they blissfully- _ignorantly_ -raised children and generations in an area _swarming_ with not-rightness, danger, and things that go _bump_ in the night.

 

_(Not like you wouldn't do the same, Dipper. You'd raise your children on these tales, you would lean into their impressionable ears, and tell them, big eyed and innocent, to go monster-hunting. You'd be a great father. ~~Like your~~ **~~own~~ ** ~~.~~ ) _

 

His body gave a faint tremble, and, behind him, there was nothing but silence, but he could all but feel the mirth rolling off Bill, the fact that he'd be gleeful to see Dipper shocked being all but pervading. The fact that he'd won in getting a reaction, a rise out of him--Bill's sick, sick amusement was _palpable_ , and- _oh_ , Dipper knew in that moment that Bill had made it all up, that like _everyone_ else Bill had played along with the weird kid's ideas to further his own, _**selfish** _ agenda. How _**dare** _ he, how _**dare** _ he--(You'd _**known** _ this would happen.)

 

There was silence behind Dipper, and then, in a quiet tone, Bill spoke up, voice not filled with mockery, with words consisting of _Look at him, the **freak** , look how he clings to daddy's beliefs, look how he wanders around, with no friends but his own **freaky** twin! _ Despite himself, Dipper tensed before slowly turning, eyes a hair width too bugged when there wasn't any remark of scorn. Instead, Bill’s expression was soft, and he had tilted his head, allowing his messy, uncut bangs to slide into his vision, though he made no move to tuck them behind an ear or out of his way.

 

"Yeah. He knew, and so do I. So does my ma’, too, and so did gran’ before she kicked it a year back," Bill continued, taking a few steps forward, his face building into something _greatly_ resembling happiness. Dipper's skin pricked. _He **knew** that this would happen-- _

 

"You actually believe me, don't you?" Bill huffed, and with a touch of rustiness in his joints, reached up to pull his hair out of his vision, his hand gliding in a nervous gesture down his neck before it stopped abruptly on the back of it. "You don't--Uh--Wanna run away, or nothin'?"

 

"Do you, from me?" Dipper couldn't help but ask, voice almost inaudible. He could barely hear himself over the sound of his beating, dancing, _leaping_ heart performing acrobatic marvels inside his ribcage, beating against his ribs like they were the keys of a xylophone, seeking purchase with his lungs as if they were incapable of aching and causing Dipper to suffer too.

 

"Nah, kid," The blond said, meeting Dipper's eyes, Dipper's flush, and giving just the barest quirk of his lips.

 

The wind, deciding the two weren't worth it's time, decided to play with some leaves a few yards away, but the lessened dramatics didn't lessen the impact of the moment. Dipper's breath hitched, and he gulped, before turning around, and walking ahead, without a word. When he couldn't hear the sounds of his--of his _acquaintance_ behind him, he didn't turn, but beckoned him forward with a hand and his voice.

 

"Come on--I don't want to get your ten year old self lost in the dangerous woods all by yourself. Your mom would kill me, wouldn't she? And carry on about that, that-- _Y’know_ , while you can." Dipper didn't start moving again until he heard a rustle of leaves trailing behind him. Inwardly, he felt something coil around his innards and _purr_ when he felt the steps of his traveling companion never straying too far away.

 

..⚜..

 

Mom and Dad weren’t ever going to come back. She knew this, she knew this _far too well_ , more than any little girl in the world, and yet, she still found herself yearning for the calloused hand of her father on her tiny, twig-thin shoulder, or the loving, and still far too wet kisses of her mother against her cheeks, and she positively _lusted_ for the feeling of their warmth against her sides, heating her too cold, too still core up with their _life. (Heat is the result of the vibrations of particles. Now, students, what in the world could prompt this sudden vibration?)_

 

But they weren’t ever going to come back, she knew. She _knew_ that they’d be replaced by _them._ Who’re ‘they’, you might ask?

 

The people who dress up like Mom and Dad. The people who wear Mom's make-up, her clothes, and her jewellery-yes, even that one that Mom absolutely _loved_ , the one that had the rubies and the diamonds arranged in the shape of a phoenix. The people that wore Dad's suits, his favourite ties, even his _cuff-links_ that even _she_ couldn't touch. How dare they, these people? How _dare_ they come into her life, practically strolling into it, and decide that what is _her's_ is suddenly _theirs_? No--The girl, small and slight, yet with fire burning in her eyes, wouldn't let this happen, and she lifts her chin, before deciding on one fact, and one fact alone.

 

That she, no matter what, would not be replaced by those false faces.

  
And the thought still clung to her when she awoke, sweating, wondering what was real and what of it wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I really wanted to update before I would go to sleep--I did, it's a bit short, and rough, as my beta didn't have time to work on it, and, quite possibly, I might merge this chapter and another together to make a bigger one, as well as add more things here. But, for the time being, it'll be as is. Expect big changes tomorrow/the day after that, however. 
> 
> EDIT: It's now betaed, with the help the help of my most beloved swimming anime protag, and now look at this, now it's so big, this new, gleaming chap 3. Also, expect chapter 4 tomorrow, cause I'm done, but I'm just waiting on my wonderful memer beta to do their magic. God speed, you bipedal chicken.
> 
> And oh! Look! A new POV! How exciting!
> 
> Oh, and for those wondering, what Dipper was going to say after "--do you wanna." Was not "--fite m8 cum at me you cocksucking cunt." But, I suppose, one can imagine.


	4. Rhythm

..▲..

 

There's a pulse of energy coming through the body of the earth from the soles of his feet, shaking its core, and bringing it to a mind-and-body blowing orgasm with one, sole request. _Can you give me the heart of my enemies?_ And the world, with quivering thighs and salivating lips, baring a naked throat, only says “ ** _Yes”_ ** before everything is rendered inaudible by her roaring undercurrent of _feelings_ and _wants_ that drown out everything that could have ever been considered unwanted by him _._

 

His lip curls, and his eyes glaze with a sheen of disgust,  but he reaches his hand out into her ribcage, through her protective sternum, and carefully, with love, wraps his fingers around her fluttering, labouring heart. It drums a beat so very familiar, so very deep, and it itches something at the edge of his senses. Something _unexpected_ , which should **never** be, for demonkind was _first_ and it shall be the _last_ and this is _sacrilege of the finest, most intimate kind--_

 

The beat itches his existence, and tears, as if trying to expose something in his innards, but he tilts his head and listens, even as the heart under his fingers grows sluggish. He listens to the beat, the thrum, and grows pallid when he knows that he _knew_ it, but no longer. And it is with this grim, unexpected, unloved fact that he slackens his grip, unclenches his clay stained fingers, and reaches out to something else.

 

He, the being alight with gold, dangles his fingers in the neural soup of Dipper's brain and sends a pulse-a beat of his own-and awaits to see how he, the chestnut haired boy, will react. He whispers to the boy that wanders, whose hopes are high and whose mind and soul are so pathetically naive, whose steps do not falter when the voice seeps in through the cracks and impregnates him with seeds of a hearty, grandiose crop. Other than this, Bill knows nothing else of his crop, or whether it shall be gold, or azure, or emerald, and perhaps this-this _ignorance_ -is the greatest thrill of all.

 

The beat-the same beat as before-resounds in Dipper's brain, and his puny little mind is converted into a hazy sight and plunged deep into a noise that’s utterly nothing but a frightful buzz, and Bill speaks-in veiled words and veiled voice-in a tone that would do nothing else but merely graze-merely _tickle_ his memory.

 

 _'Doesn't it sound like a steady bass rhythm?'_ The voice asks, formless and with no convenient associations to help create a picture of what it could possibly look like or how to describe it. It merely _is_ -like a shadow in the white expanse of Entirety-and Dipper, with no protections or armour, doe-eyed and tucked away in the safety of his brain, blinks and glances up, as if trying to search for the source.

 

The real, meaty shell of Dipper only makes an odd noise before (Bill knows) feeling the urge to go to the right instead of the left.

 

_'Isn't it like the heartbeat of a cosmic creature, of something far grander ( **better** ) than you could ever imagine being, the sort that drifts from galaxy to galaxy, bold and flavescent, brilliantly shining with no shame, with limbs long enough to caress the furthest quasars, and with brazen, blesséd antlers stroking the pregnant wombs of nebulas with mouths gaping and hungering for the idle dreams of trillions. Sempiternal, taking a few sloppy, easy steps before reaching the next galactic sector and effortlessly eating the nightmares of cosmic cradles? Doesn't it sound like the beating of such a creature's massive, formless heart, like the flutter of its wings, and its pleased purr as it **finally** is full?'_

 

The voice is eager and cooing as it reaches its presence forward, clasping Dipper's awed face in its tight hold. The hook and bait are set, and Bill waits, breath bated, for one of his two greatest enemies to react.

 

The presence is gentle, Dipper would notice, but there are hints of crimson and claws, of a desire to drag digits down and create bloody welts. With pitch possessiveness in its near- golden rimmed eyes, there is nothing but throat-slitting sharpness and a manic glee that screams loud and clear of all of its wild desires. But he, far too eager to please and forgetting all that was foretold, only arches his back and pants at the face of danger and death with electricity dancing along his spine, courting his fearful sweat.

 

The voice brings to mind a memory of Bill, of which speaks of danger and foreboding, yet Dipper is far too addled by sweetened words and honeyed imaginings to listen.

 

And perhaps it's this feeling which brings the most pleasure, or maybe it's the knowledge that the other sibling won't be much harder to seep into.  Or maybe it's the ever-present yet budding knowledge ( ~~ ** _disappointment_**~~ ) that this, in reality, will all be so much more easier than he had thought.

 

..○..

 

Senses positively aflame with--(Wendigoesthethrillofthehuntnotthatnot _that **no** becausethat'schildishchildishchildish_), with--(deepdeep _deepdeepdeepinyourheart_ )(What is there?)( _warmth_ )

 

..It can simply be stated that Dipper is alight with emotion, urges,  needs, and wants that send his brain spiralling in too many directions for him to possibly comprehend unless he stopped, ceased his movements completely, curled up on the ground, and retreated into his thoughts, leaving behind nothing but an unresponsive shell of his body to the trials of the world.

 

And, at this time, the idea doesn't hold particular merit.

 

 _(Distantly, he finds it odd_ _that he chose to go right instead of left, that instead of the town cemetery, he's going somewhere else_ , _but really, it's all okay.)_

His surroundings soon change, and dense forest is replaced by light fields, dotted with looming, dark boulders and the occasional tree that would cling to the soil with all of its might and refuse to let go, whether it be persistent rain trying to shake it off or tireless winds trying to blow it down.

 

On the ground, in some places, cling little flowers with dark centers and purple petals--Anemone, they were, but Dipper wasn't nearly enough of an enthusiast in botany to identify them. Or any kind of enthusiast in botany, really. Of course, if he was, he would recognize that _this_ species doesn't grow in the Americas.

 

"The cemetery's right over here, isn't it? Come on--Don't fall behind, Bill," Dipper called backwards, hopping over a rock after he'd scaled its rougher sides before looking over to his gasping companion. The other boy held his side before staring dubiously at the rock that was no doubt the easiest to scale amongst its colleagues, and then, with a twitch of his eyebrows, fell back on his rump in the next second. Dipper yelped, _completely_ not expecting the abrupt tumble and, with just a _touch-_ a _bit-_ of concern as Bill leaned his head forward and wheezed with his hands on his knees, Dipper turned back around.

 

Carefully, he scaled the rock again before looking down, mouth pursed in a straight line with hands just about ready to reach out. "Hey, Bill--You alright? You tired?"

 

And then Bill gave him a brilliant smile, and irritation tinted his vision with a shade of sepia. " _Aw_ , Pine Tree, I didn't know you cared. You worrying for lil' Billy Willykins?"

 

"My name isn't ' _Pine Tree',_ and yes, I was worrying. It's a side effect of my all too human empathy. I don't expect you to know what that is."

 

"Well, _someone's_ grumpy today! What, did my presence ruin your day?" Bill wore faux hurt, and, half heartedly, rose a hand to place it by his chest.

 

"Yes--No--I don't know. Just stop talking." There was this great, overpowering urge to just _leave,_ but what was even larger was-well-the _need_ to discover. Nothing more and nothing less tied him down, let his eyes hood, and allow the corner of his lips to quirk in a way that definitely, _definitely_ did not tell of fondness.

 

And yet, Bill still looked smug. "Hey kid--You going t' help your ol' pal here, or shall I just wallow around in the dirt and let my pants get all muddy?" The boy outstretched his arms, as if expecting Dipper to swoop down and carry him over the obstacle. He was still on the ground, but looked less flushed than before, even if sweat was making his skin lightly gleam.

 

"Well then, stand up and get on your tiptoes. I'm not going down there and pushing you up by your butt."

 

"It's not a butt, kid. It's an _ass,_ 'cause that sounds far more dignified than _butt--_ But hey! A guy can't protest that much when he's stuck on the ground like a baby! I guess now-and _only_ now-is the time for me to flex my muscles and tendons and _transcend._ "  Bill, heaving, set his palms on the ground and pushed, making a grunt, wiggling his limbs, and still hardly moving off the ground. His mouth was in a small 'o' and he looked, with hate in his eyes, at his immobile legs.

Dipper sighed before shifting on the rock and jumping down.

 

"Jus' give me a moment, will ya'? My legs don't seem to working, the bastards." Bill's pink tongue stuck out as he tried again to stand up, only for  his legs to twitch and quiver before he lightly got on his heels and gravity pulled him back down.

 

Dipper leaned against the rock, mulling over his lip before offering a hand to Bill who, after some suspicious glancing, took it before placing all of his weight upon him. "When's the last time you walked for so long, Bill?"

 

"Kid, the last time I walked on bipedal legs was back when I was makin’ Shakespeare's plays."

 

"My name's **_Dipper Pines_** , and I'm pretty sure you're not that old. Now come on, we'll take a break before getting a move on," the brunet said before removing his cap and, careful not to shift his bangs all that much, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. At the mention of Dipper's name-or, well, his _nickname_ -the other boy's grin seemed to stretch, devouring half of his face as he inclined his head, showing his glee at being able to _finally_ trade names with each other.

 

"Dipper doesn't sound like a real name. What's your real name?" Instantly, Dipper tensed and gave a side-ways glance to the boy who, despite his words, seemed a touch guilty looking. Or maybe it was Dipper projecting himself into his vision, into the body of another. Dipper carefully looked away and found his gaze trapped by a pink streak in a rock nearby.  With a slow movement, he put his hat back on, his fingers maintaining a vice-grip on it.

 

" **None** of your _business_ ,"  He breathed, cheek twitching with molars gnawing on his tongue.

 

Bill seemed to _shine_ with mirth as he leaned in, hands on his knees, the flecks of dirt on his face making him seem far mischievous than he was. Or, maybe for once, appearances weren't deceiving. "It's something dumb like Eugene," he whispered. "Or Bartholomew--Or- _or-_ (Hah!) something like _Clarence_."

 

Somehow, those words rendered all tension building up in Dipper's shoulders deceased, and just like that, with a few teasing words and a specific tone, all tightness evaporated, drifting up and eagerly becoming inhaled by the sickly clouds above. Perhaps if they were fed enough, they could open up and feed the dry earth with their hoarded juices.

 

"Something like that. But you're one to talk, _William._ " Bill winced, ducking his head and shooting Dipper a glance that spoke of the complete _depths_ of fondness that he had for the name.

"Hey, William Christopher Marlowe is _way_ better than Garett Logan Pines or whatever your name is. And do you recognize just how big of a coincidence it is that my nickname for you was 'Pine Tree' while your last name is 'Pines'?"

 

Dipper skipped a beat, staring, before asking, "Is that actually your name or--" Dipper blinked, and suddenly, Bill's expression greatly resembled a smug cat's.

 

"What's wrong, expected something a touch more exotic, Pine Tree? Of _all_ people, I didn't expect _you_ to be--" And, instantly, Dipper become ruddy and sputtered.

 

"You _know_ I'm not--" And, before he could finish that sentence, Bill stood up, and loomed into Dipper's face, disrespecting his private space and letting his nose almost touch Dipper's. Near-gold eyes watched the surprised brunet as he squirmed, _squeaked,_ and flattened himself against the wall. At least, that was the case before a few seconds passed and, coming back to his senses, Dipper made a noise low in his throat and pushed Bill away.

 

There was a few moments of stunned, fuming silence on Dipper’s end, and gleeful silence on Bill’s. "Ho- _ho--_ Small town boys really _are_ all the same, aren't they?" Bill's eyes sparkled, and, Dipper's face became a shining beacon of light. The boy sputtered and tried to talk, but Bill only shushed him with a curl on his lips and a spring in his step before Dipper turned on his heel and climbed the rock. Dutily, Bill followed.

 

 _(His palms were soft, weren't they? Didn't they feel pleasant against your skin, the warmth of another dismal, pitiful ape against your equally simian flesh? Didn't they warm your ivory tendons and plant affection into your sun-coloured marrow?)_ (They did. And what of it?)( _Listen to the pleased purr reverberating through your ribcage, stroking your spiky spine, and settling in your femur. Maybe then, and only then, will you understand.)_

 

(Perhaps, his heart can be changed into a chambered home of four.)

 

For several moments-minutes even-all Dipper could do was fume and clench his hands into tight little fists, but-none-the-less-he still marches, even though the importance of the man-eating Wendigo had diminished, as sense and emotions strolled into his thoughts.  He did not wish to ponder on the latter, but the former was something he could understand best of all. Really, setting off after a 8 feet tall, man-eating creature with nothing but the clothes on his back and another boy practically clinging to him wasn't--..Wasn't all that of a good idea.

 

Well, there _definitely_ have been better ones. Really, even if all Dipper wanted to do was watch the critter, then he _easily_ could have at least gotten something to defend himself with. Like a sibling with a hookshot, and a mouth that could talk even a crow out of its beloved plumage.

 

But turning back now would be cowardly, would be a declaration of weakness in front of the other, and so he walked, stumbling a few times over giggling stones and tangling in stinging nettles more than twice. Bill still sniggered, and Dipper could only imagine what kind of hellish cackling would await him if he turned back and returned to the grocery store, where Mabel would be losing her _mind_ from worry by now. ( _How about Stanford? Grandpa's twin?)( **He doesn’t care.** )_

 

Even though the path was starting to grow unfamiliar and the fields were making way to forests once more, Dipper was starting to sense that the cemetery was further away than he had expected. Still, he went on and did not stop until he-far, far in the distance-spotted a stone cross.

 

Dipper broke into a sprint, a small part of him delighted when he heard ragged breaths behind him. _Serves him right._ ( _He doesn't have a grandfather. Maybe his own father lost him too soon as well?_ )

 

While the forest still entangles the area, laid thick in all areas, there are stones and structures built all around them, and Dipper _knows_ from the fact that all these graves are overgrown, and all the names weathered, wiped out by the years, that this is _not_ the town cemetery. That no one has used this one for _years_.

 

A chill ran down his spine at the thought, and no thoughts could return his calm back to him. The grass was tall and licked the fabric at his knees, and Bill, who soon stood beside him, looked displeased at what he saw before shrugging.

 

After a moment of staying in place, Dipper tentatively went to inspect a nearby grave. The stone seemed to be a barely worked slab, and there were faint grooves in it where there was once a name, but was now illegible, especially with the thick, clingy vines growing over them. The grass was completely covering this grave, feasting on the bones below, and Dipper, with a shudder, moved on to the next, head hanging low in respect. However, he stopped his strolling when, at one grave, with faded out letters and growth on it, he spotted earth that had been recently disturbed. There was no grass, no weeds, no blossoms growing, but merely dark, dry dirt that was still quite loose in areas.

 

And so was the next, and the one to Dipper's right, and the one behind Bill, who, despite what it all implied and all of the horror movies that started with the _exact_ same picture, seemed no worse than before. In fact, his earlier displeasure was gone, and he seemed to _flourish_ there, skipping from gravestone to gravestone, bending down, staring at the weathered stone, and rising just as cheerfully to go on to the next. The boy was _skipping_ for god sakes.

 

"I-I-I think-I think we've gotten lost, Bill," Dipper spat out at last, wringing his hands as he stepped back from the graves into the center of the cluster of headstones. His chocolate orbs eyed them all with wariness as a growing sense of unrest under the skin and bone of his chest rose. It felt like something was grabbing his heart and forcing it to beat out of rhythm. Was it just Dipper, or were there eyes coming from the forest? And--And wasn't the sun going to set soon? Maybe, maybe, _maybe--_

 

Bill took one look at Dipper's face, contorted with growing fear and even more quickly growing regret, and split his sides laughing, bending and leaning onto a nearby grave.

 

”Dippin' Sauce,ya'-ya' **_just_** got that?"

 

 _('Look at you. Crawling on your knees, practically begging for the peppering kisses of suffering. Are you willing? Are you yearning? Do you pant in the face of lightless eyes and bare your throat to the visage of your betters?'_ He madly shook his head and felt his skull morph into a helium filled bag of hopes and dreams before it soon set off, only to be popped by the euphoric entity in front of him, who seeped through all of his little nicks and bruises, curled around his brain,  and paused, only to stare at the memories there and to delight in the shaking that Dipper’s knees create. _)_

 

 _('I see I'm not the first to nestle here, now am I?'_ The voice breathes a laugh, and he, the ultimate master of this mind, growls and struggles despite the iron-grip in his hair, despite the kindness offering him love and acknowledgment and a safe spot that he can huddle in for all of his natural existence. He breaks free, takes a few shaky steps back, and wipes his lips. He retains his flush, his sweat, and his heavy eyes. He lacks the bared throat, the droopy lips, and the swollen lips that were far too eager for the bite into sin. His wrists are tinted dark with the desires of another, and he steps back, eyes aflame with a raised chin.)

 

(The creature makes a laugh; A laugh from the bottom of its belly that snakes from it's innards and up it's oesophagus, planting itself in the still space in the world between them. It recognizes, in that moment, that the panacea for despair is not pain, but it is something else, something far out of touch, and the presence fades until it can fit into the palm of one's hand. The beast reaches out and asks for forgiveness with golden, little eyes and limbs that are no better than the twigs of a yew tree.)

 

( _There's nothing here that's your's, and all you are ( ~~all that a person is~~ )is a collection of everything and everyone you have ever met.)_

 

"I scared ya', didn't I?" Bill suddenly speaks, and all of Dipper screeches to a halt,  his eyes as big as saucers with his heart skipping several, all important beats, as he loses the ability to _breath_. All he can do is  try to remember how air in his lungs feels like. And, for his defense, the blond does seem to be _immensely_ sheepish. "Sorry. Get told I'm real ominous sometimes--Still, I reckoned you were lost the moment we went in that field. Kinda was obvious, kiddo." The boy even sounds _sympathetic._

 

"It's best we go back, Pine Tree." And, whelp, there goes Dipper's jaw. "It's getting dark, and I like living, and well-from the looks of things-if we stay 'round, I can't keep on having that much beloved life 'o mine."

 

"B-But--But the--" Dipper stammered, taking a few steps forward and wincing when he got in the way of the sun's rays.  The air was coloured red, mauve, and pink by the sun and its death throes. It in vain tried clawing and holding onto the earth, refusing to be replaced by it's inferior, the moon. But despite its light show, and it's shrieks and scared bellows, the moon still loomed in the far east, patiently awaiting when the sun's arms would shake and give, and when the sky would be free to roam for the massive, bright moon, and his billions, upon billions of little children.

 

Or perhaps, it was the opposite. Perhaps the moon was the petulant child, and the sun-the patient, nursing sun-would carefully await the moon until it would gather all of its courage, and with grace and glory, would drop below the horizon and smile as her brother would shyly try to gift the world with his light. But the sun would know that the moon did not, and _could_ not match the might of the sun.

 

And it was the cruel earth that would conspire with the sun and lie to the moon all for the sake of his ego.

 

 _(Oh come now, man, you're not even being **subtle** anymore. Aren't you tired of how pathetic you are?)_ (I was made to be pathetic. Birthed, grown, and raised. It's not my fault. Didn't you just say that I'm a collection of everything and everyone we ever met?)( _It's your fault that you're nothing but an old man’s experiment, you unneeded runt.)_

 

Bill leaned in, a corner of his mouth quirked, but his body so completely still that it seemed like he was completely and utterly captivated by what Dipper had to say. It made a part of Dipper heat up and broil, his heart quivering like a newborn, and just as sluggish. "The Wendigo?” He asked, amused, before flaring his hand, looking away for a second before affixing back to Dipper, and not in the way the boy was accustomed--There was no hate, or even any measure of dislike, or pity, or apathy. It was something that could be compared with the way his sister and father looked at him.

 

“Psh, kid, I'm sure it can wait for tomorrow. Plus--We weren't _nearly_ as ready for this as you thought we were, and while it's funny watching you marching into danger without another thought, I'm not _particularly_ fond of the idea of letting you die." Bill stepped forward, closing the distance between them and outstretching his hand.

 

"Tomorrow, at 9, you bring whatever you need, and I'll bring my stuff, and we meet at the town cemetery?" And, like an afterthought, as his eyes roamed over Dipper's flesh. "--And, if you wanna bring anyone, you can do it. Deal?"

 

Dipper, with bulging eyes, and a maelstrom beating in his head and pounding in his blood, stared at the soft hand before, tepidly, outstretching his hand--Stopping just an inch shy of touching, and scanning Bill's eyes, shifting on his feet, and forcing the words out of his throat, as his fingers curled back towards his palm.

 

"What makes you think I'll be bringing someone along?" He wrapped his traitor heart in chains and ropes, tied them to curled hooks, and attached the ends to the points of his spine and the horns of his pelvis. As a final measure, on a whim, he wielded the metal of the chains into a bow, surely out of embarrassment, because surely his heart wouldn’t beat anymore.

 

Dipper was met with a smile that was all teeth and gum and lacking of all of the pleasantries.

 

"Guess I just got a sense for it, eh?" The boy shrugged and watched with sharp eyes and intentions that were growing to be known as that of an unknown background.

 

After a moment of waiting, after a still moment in which nothing happened, for everything had stilled--From the swaying of every miniscule stalk of grass, to the curling of leaves, to even the light of the celestial bodies above, Dipper twitched, a few chestnut curls drooping over his vision, and made a half step forward.  

 

Their hands met. "Deal." And thus, it was all but sealed in rock, just like the eternal resting places around them, who whispered a gossip most fine, even after their areas were cold with the lack of anything and everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Chap 4, nice and gleaming and edited! Or, at least, I hope it is. Personally, I was displeased with this chapter cause it didn't just feel right, but I don't know. Please say what you think about this chapter--Hell, comment about anything, I enjoy any feedback! Especially when it's with something I'm particularly torn about.
> 
> Oh, also, if anyone wants to personally contact me/whatever, my tumblr is the same as my name here, theholychesse.


End file.
